You
by thegirlwhowondered
Summary: Sherlock stumbles home, looking pretty fresh from the fight, and of course John is more than eager to help out. What he doesn't know is that Sherlock is conducting a little experiment... JOHNLOCK!


**Yay, I managed to write a Johnlock fic that I'm actually pretty happy with! :D **

**I put out a shipping fics requests-request and this was the first one I got:**

_**Sherlock gets into a scuffle, and comes back to Baker Street with a cut up face and a few bruised ribs. Doctor John to the rescue!**_

**So thank you to tick-tock-goes-the-croc on Tumblr for that prompt. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

When it's pouring rain outside and you're stuck at home with no one but your elderly landlady for company, what's the second best way to spend your day off? Watching really, really...really...bad daytime telly, of course.

The actual best way to spend it would involve giving your flatmate, who hadn't come home since yesterday, a full lecture but sadly that was not possible for John Watson.

By this point, John was very used to waiting up for Sherlock for several nights in a row without hearing a word. But did that stop him from worrying? No. And did that save Sherlock from the talking-to he got every time he disappeared without so much as phoning? Absolutely not.

Some days, living with Sherlock Holes was like living with a real-life genius action hero; and other days, it was like living with a rebellious teenager.

Just as John was giving up on focusing on anything but his worry for Sherlock, the oh-so-clever consulting detective staggered right through the living room door, looking a little worse for wear.

Mrs Hudson let out a gasp upon seeing Sherlock's black eye, cut lip and doubled-over posture. "Oh my! Whatever happened to you?"

"Oh, it was just a little scuffle. The important thing is, I managed to recover this." And from his coat pocket, Sherlock produced a tiny flash drive.

"What's on that, that's so worth being beaten up over?" John asked, with a small degree of irritation in his voice.

"No idea!" Sherlock's eyes sparkled, as they always did when a mystery so openly presented itself. "That's what I'm about to find out."

"Oh, I don't think so." John got to his feet, to stand between Sherlock and their laptop. (Well, strictly speaking, it was John's laptop, but Sherlock "confiscated" it so often, they both had just mutually agreed on joint custody.) "Let me tend to your...wounds, first."

Sherlock reeled back. "I fine! I just have to see what's on this flash drive."

"No." John's voice was firm. "Like you always say, the key to knowing is in observation, and the way you're holding your arm over your chest clearly says that you've probably bruised or cracked a rib, at the very least. Now stop being stubborn and get your shirt off."

With those words out in the open, Mrs Hudson rose to her feet, announcing, "I think I'll just leave you to it," before dashing out the door.

"I only meant-that wasn't a-I just wanted to-oh, never mind." She was out of earshot by then anyway.

Sherlock tried to dodge John while he was distracted, only to find himself pushed backwards. "John, I appreciate your concern, but really-"

John wasn't listening. He was too busy tugging Sherlock towards the sofa; and surprisingly, Sherlock didn't try too hard to pull away. Maybe he figured that, with his injuries, he had little chance of succeeding anyway.

While Sherlock got comfortable (and not quietly, either - he kept complaining about how pointless this all was), John ducked out to the kitchen and returned with a first aid kit, an ice pack and several bandages.

"Right. Most severe wound first. Are you hurt anywhere else besides your chest and face?"

Sherlock shook his head, grumbling a tiny "No".

"Alright then." John reached forward to undo Sherlock's shirt, before catching himself and clearing his throat. "Uh-you can do that part."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stripped off his jacket and shirt, leaving him bare from the waist-up. John tried to keep his mind firmly on what he was doing as his hands gently caressed Sherlock's chest, assessing the damage. Sherlock, for his part, turned out to be a very good patient. He was silent and still, barely muttering a complaint while John worked.

"Right. They're just bruised, I think," John decided, holding an ice pack up to the affected area and wrapping a bandage over top so it stayed in place. After that was all dealt with, he literally had to stop and take a deep breath. His hands were shaking. Was it normal for a straight man to be so captivated by another man's chest?

Clearing his throat, John moved on to the lighter cuts and bruises on Sherlock's face. Like a good patient, Sherlock remained completely still while John applied the antiseptic, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat. Sherlock was, even John couldn't deny, very beautiful - as beautiful as a _straight_ man could admit another man was, that is.

As John brushed over an especially painful cut under his eye, Sherlock hissed and grabbed at his hand. "S-sorry," he whispered, withdrawing slowly and grabbing at the seat cushion. "Stings..."

"No, it ok," John insisted. "I was in the army, remember? I've had much worse." Still - more for Sherlock's benefit than his own - John was extra careful from then on.

His nimble, practised fingers made their way around Sherlock's bruised face; over his forehead, down his nose, along his jawline. Tracing those wonderfully prominent cheekbones. At some point, Sherlock had closed his eyes, leaving John free to stare as much as he liked. To John, Sherlock's face was the kind that you could spend all day staring at, and then you'd look away for five seconds; and when you glanced back, it would take your breath away all over again...

At least, it would be...you know, if John was gay. Which he was not,_ excuse you_.

A good fifteen minutes later, John pulled back a little and began packing up the kit. "We're done here," he declared. "You can go plug that stupid flash drive in now. Just don't put any viruses onto the laptop, I do use it too."

John was halfway to the kitchen when Sherlock spoke. "There is nothing on the flash drive."

John wheeled around slowly, to find that Sherlock hadn't budged an inch. He hadn't even opened his eyes. The only thing that had changed was that there was now a ghost of a smirk on his face - the kind that said that he'd just discovered something he knows you never wanted him to know.

"I beg your pardon?" John cleared his throat, blinking the confused look off his face, allowing a slightly annoyed one to take its place. "You got yourself all beaten up...over a flash drive you _knew_ was empty."

"No." Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, his gaze settling on John. "I got myself all beaten up because it was necessary for an experiment I wanted to conduct. I asked Anderson to do the job. He was all too happy to oblige, strangely enough."

John let out an irritated sigh. Sherlock could be a real twit sometimes. "Do enlighten me, since you so obviously want to be asked. What experiment could be so important that you would allow Anderson to beat you up over it."

"You."

One simple three-letter word; and it hung in the air for what felt like an eternity. "M-me?"

Sherlock nodded. "I only wanted to see how you'd react."

"Why?" John asked, positively baffled. He was used to not understanding Sherlock's insane train of thought, but this was a whole new level of weird.

Sherlock got to his feet. "So I'd know if there was any real point in doing this." And within seconds, he'd crossed the room, taken John's face in his hands, and kissed him dead on the lips.

John froze. The first aid kit slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor, instantly forgotten. What the hell was Sherlock doing? John tried to pull away, but he couldn't. Not because Sherlock's grip was too tight. Not because anything was stopping him.

He just didn't want to.

John parted his lips, only slightly, and he could feel Sherlock's satisfied smirk against them. His arms, no longer content to hang limply, found their way around Sherlock's midsection; but just as John made to pull him closer, Sherlock ended the kiss.

John didn't open his eyes. What if this was a dream? What if he was imagining all this? What if, when he did open his eyes, he found himself staring not into Sherlock's eyes, but the darkness of his bedroom at some god forsaken hour, just as he had so many times before?

"John?" Sherlock whispered, his breath warm and sweet smelling. "John, open your eyes. Look at me."

"How did you know?" John asked, swallowing nervously. He did not open his eyes, because it was far too good to be true. Sherlock always had been brilliant, there was no denying that. But this was something John hadn't had the courage to admit to himself yet - despite the hours of lost sleep, and all the times he'd caught himself fantasising about this very moment. How could Sherlock - Mr Sociopath himself - possibly cotton on?

"Oh, I always had a hunch," Sherlock murmured in a seductively low voice. "It was written all over you. Every time you looked at me, your eyes would darken slightly, and your gaze would linger just a little too long. Just a little. You skip dates to spend time with me. You get overbearing when I stay out too long, and overprotective when I'm in danger. You worry constantly, and every night, you whisper my name in your sleep. But of course, that's not enough for a definite conclusion. While you were tending to me, your breathing quickened. I took your pulse, and it was erratic. Your hands lingered everywhere, and you kept hesitating when you made to touch me, something a doctor of your experience is unlikely to do. I had no choice but to conclude that you, John Watson, are completely and hopelessly in love with me, and have been since the day we met. Now, open your eyes."

John took a deep breath, and finally complied. Their eyes met, and John couldn't help but note that Sherlock's smirk had stayed as it was. "I'm right, aren't I?"

John rolled his eyes. "That's absurd," he denied stubbornly. "You're my friend. Nothing more."

"Oh, really? Is that why you kissed me?"

John gasped. "No! That wasn't-and hey, you kissed me!"

"You kissed me back," Sherlock countered. "Just admit it, John. You're in love with me."

"Why should I?" John grumbled, averting his gaze.

"Because..." Finally Sherlock's cocky , nonchalant exterior faltered. "Because, John, I...the way I think of you is...well..."

John gasped, as his eyes snapped up to find that now Sherlock was the one not eager to make eye contact. "You're in love with me!"

"No! Well..." Sherlock sighed. "Yes. I think so. It's a complicated, thing, love; really impossible to-"

"Oh, shut up!" John rolled his eyes. "Just-just stop thinking and kiss me again."

He didn't have to be told twice. He leaned down and kissed John again; and for once in his life, Sherlock Holmes actually did stop thinking and just let himself feel.

"Oh, boys, I know you liked those cookies I made last week, so I whipped up another batch-" Mrs Hudson stopped dead and her jaw dropped as she took in the sight of Sherlock and John, entwined in each others arms, lost in a kiss; ignorant of anything outside their own little world.

"I'll just leave these here," she whispered, laying the cookies down on a table and sneaking out the front door with a bright, happy smile on her face.


End file.
